Endgame
by the moon and the stars
Summary: Nightmare or flesh, consent or no, the devil was always in his head. The only difference was proximity. / Sam, Lucifer, and a cage. Post-11x09.


**Endgame**

 **Summary:** Nightmare or flesh, consent or no, the devil was always in his head. The only difference was proximity. / Sam, Lucifer, and a cage. Post-11x09.

 **Disclaimer** : I own nothing. Sad for me, but probably good news for everybody else.

 **A/N:** Wishing I had gotten this out sooner, but better late than never. Yay for the return of Supernatural tonight!

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Time and time again Sam Winchester proved that the road to hell was paved with his intentions. The evidence literally surrounded him—a prison made of flesh and bone, fire and brimstone, pain and unmitigated terror. All in all, the cruelest form of déjà vu imaginable.

And the company certainly hadn't improved in five years.

"How are we doing over there, buddy? Still catatonic?"

A crash of thunder was the only answer. Sam offered none of his own, hoarding them like the last drops of water in the Sahara.

Like the final prayer of the condemned.

"I don't suppose you could expedite the grieving process? Bypass denial so we can take this show on the road? No?"

Sam said nothing. For hours he had been the same: huddled in a corner, as rigid as the cold iron excavating the contours of his spine, boring silent holes into the prison bars opposite him; meanwhile his cell mate took full advantage of their interment. He never let up for long, each verbal grenade expertly timed to destroy whatever complacency Sam fruitlessly cultivated in the interim. Absurdly, he supposed he should be grateful. Words cut deep, but there were far sharper implements in the devil's arsenal. And those were never off the table.

"Come on, roomie," came the next strike. "Where's the witty repartee? I miss it."

Again, no return fire. No doubt his brother wouldn't hesitate to launch a full counterstrike of retorts, but Sam dammed all of his behind clenched teeth. He had to be smarter than his emotions. There was no tactical advantage to sticking his head out of the foxhole. If he had taken anything away from his hallucination days, it was not to give an inch.

Because the devil took so much more than a mile.

"Personally, I think the brooding is a bit much," he was saying. "Is any of this really that surprising? Did you actually think you could poke at the Cage without consequence? That you could stroll through my neck of the woods on some holy mission and demand help without having to pay the piper?" Sam didn't have to look over to know his companion was smiling. "Points for sheer gall, but you have to admit it was pretty naïve on your part—not to mention masochistic—to come knocking on my door without a weapon, or reliable backup, or a game plan of any kind. Sam," he crooned suddenly. A petulant grab for attention. A successful one. "You forget that I know you. _Intimately_. You're smarter than all that. With motives so easily corrupted, and a strategy so transparently thin, what else can I conclude but that you were just desperately craving my company?"

Quiet laughter filled Sam's ears.

And then a sigh stretching the length of the cell, deep and content. Sam felt bathed in it. Tainted. Despite the perimeter of hellfire, his entire body erupted with gooseflesh. Cold. Always cold. Never enough to numb; more than enough to penetrate.

"If you keep giving me the silent treatment, though, it's going to be a long eternity… or however long we have until the Darkness makes her final descent. You know," he pushed, "if you wanted to reboot the planet, all you had to do was ask. Still can, actually. You can have it all, Sam, _we_ can have it all… if you just let me in. One little word and the dynamic duo's back in business. Ah, makes me pine for the glory days just thinking about it."

Sam's pulse quickened. On the surface the hits were nothing more than the usual brand of idle mockery, but now they were coming more frequently, their aim more focused. His experience ran too deep not to recognize the shift—the predatory intent that belied every lofty word.

"I get it, though. Your reluctance. Rock, hard place, etcetera… but it's too little, too late for cold feet, kiddo. You really think you're doing humanity any favors by sidelining the MVP before the big championship game? By shackling the one and only person who can stop Auntie Dearest from making the universe her personal playground?"

Gathering steam, the speech persisted with deadly accuracy. "See, the question you should be asking isn't what will happen if you say 'yes' to me. It's what will happen if you _don't_. Because if she has her way—and she will," he warned, "she'll make the Apocalypse look like the opening number in a peppy Broadway musical. But hey, at least when the end is nigh, you'll have a decent view of the main event from your high horse."

A muscle jumped in Sam's cheek—subtle, though no less damning.

In the brief respite that followed, he could practically hear the sound of gears spinning over the cadence of rolling thunder that permeated everything.

Strategy revision, Sam realized too late. Right as the next wave of the attack began.

"Okay, level with me here. This isn't some moral quandary over setting one monster loose to stop another. You knew." Not a statement; an accusation. "You knew even before you sought me out that it wasn't just about gathering intel; it was a rescue mission. You knew my help wouldn't come cheap, just as you knew I'd be useless in a fight if I was stuck on desk duty. Bottom line? You knew I'd walk free.

"Which circles us right back to the question of the day," he announced with flourish. "Why the hang up? Why refuse to do the one thing I ask of you? Your aversion to sharing personal space? Your fear of forfeiting control? Your spiteful attempt to settle an old score? With a sense of pride that well developed, Sam, is it really any wonder why you're my true vessel?"

Each question was a direct hit. More than crippling Sam's resolve, they sliced straight through his flimsy armor, bleeding him out as though from a gaping gut wound.

Desperate, the grip around his knees tightened like a vise in a futile attempt to keep his insides from spilling all over the cell floor.

His assailant, scenting blood, twisted the knife. "Such a tragic legacy you lead. I know. I understand. You try so hard to walk the righteous path only to lose your footing, every single time." His sympathy was as transparent as Sam's declining poker face. "My advice? Let that work _for_ you this time. So the stakes have changed. So what? It can only go up from here. And isn't that the whole point? Saving the world, whatever it takes?"

And then the smile dropped out of his voice entirely, and it was cold enough to freeze blood. "You're hardly in a position to draw the line at personal vendettas. Pick your battles, Sam. There's no redemption for you in here, no glory, so stop trying to turn yourself into some kind of martyr. It isn't noble. It's pointless, deluded cowardice." Each word uttered with cutting clarity, the assault finally reached its apex. "The world literally hangs in the balance. The sooner you accept your role and your responsibility for the mess you created, the sooner we can get around to saving it."

A beat of silence followed, as though allowing the decree to reach full potency—a maneuver that Sam only understood later was meant to preface the fatal blow.

Because without warning Lucifer was in front of him, crouching, so that Sam had no choice but to stare into the eyes that haunted his very soul.

He flinched away. With his entire body.

" _I know you_."

The echo of a former taunt, now utterly sincere, ghosted over Sam's face in the barest of whispers. Like the hiss of an executioner's blade.

Or a banished memory rising from the ashes. "I know how this ends. Whether in this hole, or out there fighting the good fight, it's you and me. Look around you, Sam. Can you honestly tell me that _this_ —right here, right now—is the lesser of two evils?"

He really couldn't.

He had been wrong before, about the devil's implements. Sam might be a seasoned veteran of psychological warfare, an expert of endurance born out of necessity—but there was no denying that he was caged with the master craftsman.

Nightmare or flesh, consent or no, the devil was always in his head. The only difference was proximity.

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 **A/N:** I edited this thing to death so there's bound to be stuff I missed. Might recheck/repost tomorrow after I've gotten some sleep.

Also, I don't know for sure if Sam's 'yes' would equal instant freedom, since I'm a little fuzzy on what exactly Rowena did to the warding spells and what Lucifer's powers/limitations are in this new cage. For the sake of simplicity, let's just assume that Sam is Lucifer's get-out-of-jail-free card. Okay? Okay.

Lastly, I've marked this story as complete, but… I don't know. Probably digging my own grave by saying this at all, but there's a teeny tiny chance I might write a little more. Like, a chapter. Maybe. If the right inspiration comes along. We'll see.


End file.
